Along the Canyon’s Edge

by Melissa Wandrei

Somewhere
under the scintillating night sky
a river of gleaming silver cuts
through ancient
stone.

Red-layered rock sweeps up
on either side, throwing
deep shadow
down

​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​ ​down

​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​ ​down
where mirrored water reflects
a universe strewn with scattered stars,
Andromeda exploding
in spiraling purple
and blue —
billions of tiny lights
in the water and
in the sky.

Clouds billow like cotton candy pulled apart,
like will-o’-the-wisp streaking
in blood orange and crimson
across the night,
and somewhere along the edge
strangers gather as mist
and early morning
fingers of sunlight haze
water, stone, and wildflower
with a soft feathery look —
a Kinkade painting
of juniper and
barberry.

From concrete,
from shuttered ceilings,
from closed doors;
from stress
and dull
and heavy
and alone
and searching
they came to the canyon’s edge —
indigo silhouettes of sisters
grandfathers and
mothers and
children,
bright-eyed
with quiet smiles
against a backdrop
of gold sun climbing
​​ ​ ​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​ ​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​ ​​​up
​ ​ ​ ​ up
up
grand canyon walls.